


Saturday Mornings With a Cup of Tea

by LassieLowrider



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M, Purple Prose, mentions of anathema/newt, mentions of madame tracy/shadwell, mentions of the them, mentions of warlock, so much purple prose, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:44:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LassieLowrider/pseuds/LassieLowrider
Summary: Nestled in the chalk hills of the South Downs, not too far from Bepton, there is a cottage. It's a small cottage, once abandoned, but now full of love and life again.or,the author is incredibly soft and wanted to write something equally soft and also purple prose





	Saturday Mornings With a Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Queen's _The Miracle_.
> 
> Honestly, I don't even know what this is but I hope y'all enjoy it.

Nestled in the chalk hills of the South Downs, not too far from Bepton, there is a cottage. It’s not a very large cottage (were you to enter the library, however, you’d be surprised to see the ceiling higher than possible, the rows upon rows of shelves extending far past where the outer wall should be). It is, however, an old cottage, that once upon a time had been full of life and of love, but as the sheep-and-corn farming disappeared in favour of effective, large-scale meat production, so too did the small hold farmers.

Yes, the cottage had settled, left behind and empty, slumbering, dreaming of ages past filled with laughter and joy. It looked like maybe it wouldn’t be a love-filled home again, left alone to decay until nothing remained but maybe memories.

Many a cottage went that way, yes, but not  _ this  _ cottage.

The saviour of this cottage came not upon a noble steed, but rather in a shining vintage car. The car is currently as loved as the cottage had been (and will be, once again), but it nevertheless screech a bit as the driver slams on the breaks, throws it in reverse and parks outside the low garden wall. He gets out of the car, doesn’t bother closing the door, choosing instead to walk straight over to where a derelict gate hangs on a solitary hinge.

Once upon a time, the cottage had been called  _ Eden _ , in hopes of a bountiful harvest from the vegetable plot and sweet fruit from the orchard. Now, the faded sign serves as an omen - serves its purpose as the siren’s call, promising new beginnings all over again. 

Still looking at the cottage, seemingly without seeing it, still tracing the faded lettering on the sign, he fishes a phone from - somewhere, the trousers seemingly far too tight for even the ultraslim smartphones of the time. He places a call, tone short and sentences succinct, and - all of a sudden, a seemingly forgotten cottage, nestled in the chalk hills of the South Downs, has a chance.

Over the coming week - exactly seven days, because the new owner is nothing if not a stickler for symmetry - the cottage lives again. The roof is rethatched, the garden brought back from an overgrown jungle (and the critters living therein), the kitchen is painted a soft and mellow colour perfectly matching the sunflowers outside the window, and lastly the door is painted a cheery green. The one room where nothing more than dusting happens is the second bedroom on the top floor, where the new owner merely pats the walls and looks around. 

The seventh day dawns, and in Soho the owner of a bookshop (“A.Z. Fell’s Rare and Antique Books: Sometime’s we’re open!”) is ushered into a vintage Bentley (one owner since new, the very demon currently behind the wheel). 

“Really, my dear, why won’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

“It’s a  _ surprise _ , angel, don’t you know what the word means?”

“I don’t like surprises, you know that, dear boy.”

“Unless it’s food or a new book, yes, but I think - I think you will love this, angel.”

There is a small hill, overlooking the cottage called  _ Eden _ , over which the road meanders and gives a perfect spot to look out over the chalk hills. This is where the Bentley slows and rolls to a stop, giving the two in the car an amazing view of the South Downs - and of a cottage called  _ Eden _ .

After a moment, it continues its slow, winding way, the driver (slightly) smugly enjoying the awestruck silence from the passenger seat. 

When the car slows again, coming to a stop in front of the cottage, the demon behind the wheel leaves the car - which shuts off without his hands ever coming close to the ignition - to open the passenger door. He helps the other out, sweeping an arm out, gesturing to the cottage, the newly repainted sign proclaiming it  _ Eden _ , and the surrounding garden.

“Welcome, angel, to  _ Eden _ .”

The angel is speechless, hand held to his mouth and tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. The demon, familiar with his expressions after six thousand years in each other’s company, knows the tears to be born of joy, knows the love growing in the heart of an angel - and he takes pride in it. He is, after all, a demon, and Pride has been called a mortal sin.

“Oh, Crowley, love - it’s… beautiful.”

The look on the angel’s face could only be described as rapturous. 

“It’s ours, angel - if you want.”

“Nothing could please me more.”

The demon leads the way, like so many times before; the angel follows, and unlike earlier there is no attempt to say everything goes a bit too fast. The cottage isn’t a home, not quite yet - the demon who bought it wanted his angel to be involved in the making of their home, and he will be.

Books, just like their keeper, will relocate from Soho, just like plants and  _ their  _ keeper came from Mayfair; the wine they’re not certain who brings, but as before they will both be drinking it - now one won’t have to leave at the end of the night, ever fearful of retribution. Now, they’ll retire together, to a bed made with tartan silk sheets - the only compromise they could both accept.

There’ll be a garden, not as magnificent but just as loved as its namesake (and rather more terrified), a library rivalling Alexandria’s in both size and contents (this one will not meet the same fate), and there’ll be both a duck pond and a chicken coop - both miraculously surviving every fox in the South Downs. The demon will call the chickens his  _ little ladies _ and the angel will feed their ducks in their pond with frozen peas - sometimes the demon forgets himself, and the duck will bob down as it swallows the pea, but only for the shortest of moments. The ducks themselves find it quite amusing, when it happens.

There’ll be artwork - a very beautiful sketch of the Mona Lisa, where the smile isn’t quite like the painting (it’s  _ better _ , if you ask the artist, he could never quite get the smile right later on), a statue of an eagle (wooden, and it looks to have been saved from a quite serious fire), and a statue, slightly hidden, that if studied seems rather more lewd than anyone would expect from a statue depicting an angel.

Some days - the warm, sunny days, when the stones are sun warm and the air just a bit too thick to be entirely comfortable breathing - there’s a snake in the garden. It’s a big snake, coal black with a red underbelly, and he will unselfconsciously sun himself until a voice calls or an angel pokes him, reminds him that while he’s lovely in all shapes, human hands are still necessary for holding the wine glass. 

Sometimes there are visitors; a boy dropped off in a big, black SUV, or four children who seems to appear just behind the bend, ambling their way over to the cottage called  _ Eden _ . There’s an older couple, too, she bright and bubbly and he the very opposite. Sometimes, an old, blue, three-wheeled car (with the novelty plate ‘Dick Turpin’) will come to a stop next to the even older Bentley, releasing a younger couple - don’t ask him for help with technology, and unless you really want to know, don’t ask her for the future. 

No matter who the visitor, there’ll be peals of laughter and a pervading sense of love pouring out of the cottage. The cottage exudes a love so all-encompassing that all who goes past it instantly has a run of good luck. 

Some days they’ll make their way into Bepton, Bach’s  _ Another One Bites the Dust _ playing as they take to the winding roads, parking underneath a ‘No parking’-sign that abruptly forgets its purpose. They’ll browse through the tiny shops, have lunch at the inn, and go home, secure in the knowledge that next week they’ll do it all over again.

They’re just as secure in the knowledge that when they snuggle down on the couch in front of a fire, it won’t be their last time, no glass of wine will be their last, because now, after six thousand years on nominally opposite sides, they’re finally free of expectations and free to love one another.

They know, too, that when they wake the next morning, the angel often the first to rise, there’ll be breakfast, tea and homemade bread. There’ll be the soft morning light coming through the window, the yellow kitchen turning luminous in the sun. While they wait for the tea to steep, the demon will pull the angel into a slow dance, more swaying in place than anything with actual steps. They’ll sway to the tune of their heartbeats, two hearts that have been beating in sync for longer than any human have been alive.

Nestled in the chalk hills of the South Downs, not too far from Bepton, there is a cottage. It’s not a very large cottage (were you to enter the library, however, you’d be surprised to see the ceiling higher than possible, the rows upon rows of shelves extending far past where the outer wall should be). It is, however, an old cottage, and it is once again full of life and of love. In the cottage lives two men, so very obviously in love that everyone who sees them simply must smile at the joy their presence brings.

It is called  _ Eden _ , and this time no one’s getting cast out.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as isauntervaguelydownwards.


End file.
